


Aftermath

by cantdrawshaw



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Gen, Not A Fix-It, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9606800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantdrawshaw/pseuds/cantdrawshaw
Summary: The night ends the same way it begins.Takes place in the time between Samaritan's defeat and the ending of the show.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I couldn't get out of my head. I messed with the timeline a little. Any errors are mine.

It starts like this: spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning, until you’re not sure your eyes will ever reach equilibrium again, or even if you want them to.

No one comes to stop you this time. No one’s left to even care.

You’re alone in the park and it’s the middle of night and there’s nothing inside of you. Just nothing.

You don’t even have your normal anger sitting in your stomach. There’s just a hollow, gaping numbness that you know should make you angry, but it doesn’t, and you think that’s why you’re still here, why you keep coming back here, because you know this is a place that made you feel and you think feeling is something you’re supposed to be doing right now.

Root is dead. Reese and Finch are too, probably.

As far as you know, Fusco and Bear and you are all that’s left of your team.

There had been a war, one that would never go down in the history books, but had happened nonetheless. There’s the battles and the exchanged bullets and the sacrifices and lives lost to prove it.

But you’re still here. You made it. You won. Despite everything.

So why doesn’t it feel more like a victory?

It’s a question you can’t answer. And so you spin yourself around on the stupid roundabout until you physically can’t stand it anymore, and then you allow your wobbling legs to carry you down the dark streets, hands stuffed into the pockets of your jacket, the cool metal of your gun a reassuring anchor on your back.

When you come to a street that’s more crowded than you want to deal with at the moment, you look for some place to slip into.

You end up in a bar, snagging two seats at the end of the counter. You order a whiskey and a margarita, sliding the latter to the empty space next to you.

You nurse your drink in peace, not really thinking of anything beyond the burn in your throat, until a voice comes along and demands your attention.

“You waitin’ on somebody?”

It’s some slick ladies’-man, the kind that looks like he’s never gotten turned down in his life. He’s gesturing to the stool next to yours, the untouched drink in front of it.

“No,” you say, seeing no sense in lying. You can’t keep the venom from your voice. There’s no one left for you to wait for.

You vaguely hope he’ll take your curt response as an indication that you’re not interested.

He doesn’t, sliding onto the stool beside you. You feel a stab of annoyance when he slides the unclaimed glass away. It deepens the scowl on your face.

You’re not even sure she _liked_ the drink you picked out. But it was what she’d had in Miami, and it was all you could think of when you ordered.

You toy with the idea of punching the guy in the face. The argument for it only gets stronger as he continues to try to talk to you.

“You been in here before?” he asks.

You slug the rest of your drink back.

“I haven’t seen you around. And I always remember a pretty face.” He winks as he says the last part.

You catch the bartender’s eye, signal for another round. This time, you swallow half of it in one gulp. Your knuckles are white against the cool surface of the glass.

Mr. Can’t-Take-a-Hint tries one more time. “You from around here?”

You’ve had enough. You turn towards him, look him dead in the eye. “Yeah. But I spent the better part of the past year being tortured by people working for the government. Didn’t get out too much.”

Most people would have backed out at that point, taking your serious expression as a sign that maybe you are just as crazy as you’re making yourself sound, but he just seems to think you’re playing some kind of game with him. He runs his eyes up and down your body, a smirk coming to his lips.

“Oh yeah?” His voice raises in a mock question and he leans closer. “You seem to be in pretty great shape to me.”

Something snaps. Shatters.

_Great shape_. You don’t want to talk about shapes.

Something burns, and it takes you a moment to realize it’s an actual physical sensation, not just in your head. There’s a wetness, and a stinging.

The idiot jerks away from you, dabbing at his shirt, fear and anger mixing with his overall horrified face. He jumps off the stool, scurries away. You hear him mutter “Crazy bitch.”

You finally look down at your hand, at what’s left of the glass in your fist. Blood is dripping from your palm, mixing with the puddle of alcohol on the counter. There are glass shards everywhere: on the floor, on your clothes, on the counter, in your skin.

You let go of the somewhat recognizable bottom rim and squeeze your fist tight, focusing on the pain. Feeling the burn of the whiskey in the wound. Relishing it, just for a moment.

The bartender comes over, towel in hand. “You’re gonna have to pay for that.”

You give him your best glare, but you slap two twenties down to cover the drinks and the glass before walking out.

You roam the streets again, picking tiny pieces of glass out of your palm and flicking them to the pavement. Blood runs down your arm from the pad between your thumb and index finger. The cut isn’t long, but it’s deeper than you initially thought. You tear a strip from your shirt and wrap it around your hand.

You keep walking.

It’s strange not having to worry about being seen anymore, not having to hide your identity from an all-seeing AI. There’s freedom in that, at least.

But it also makes you lack direction.

None of the simulations you went through had ever accounted for the death of Samaritan. It hadn’t been able to conceive of a scenario in which it’d lose.

And that leads to the question of what you should do now.

You killed Blackwell today. It felt like any of your other kills. In other words, you felt nothing when you pulled the trigger.

You think of his weasel face and still feel nothing. It had been the same as when you shot the guy who killed Cole. At least, you try to convince yourself of that.

Then, things had just been getting started. Now, things have settled and there’s something missing.

You squeeze your fist tight, letting your fingers dig the fabric into the wound, forcing yourself to stop thinking. You need a plan. Somewhere to go, something to do. You’ve never been one for idle time without purpose.

You know where you’ll be able to find Fusco, come daylight. It’s time to check in, take your dog back. You doubt he’ll know anything you don’t.

But it’s barely even two in the morning. You still have hours to kill, and only one place you can think of to go.

You turn. Let your feet carry you back in the direction of the park.

Tomorrow, you will move on. But for one more night, you will let yourself have this. You think you’ve earned it, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Does anyone else feel physically hurt when someone says the word shape or arrow or symphony? Or is it just me?


End file.
